


Perfect Pressure

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub, Forced Orgasm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is trying desperately to be quiet, but it’s next to impossible. So he whimpers and bites his lip, not wanting John to hear him and come down to investigate. <br/>The lights are all off, leaving the outside street lamp as the only source of illumination. Robbed of visual distractions, Sherlock gratefully surrenders to the one addiction he refuses to give up: Ian Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **cookieswillcrumble** for the beta job while **chasingriver** prepares for the holidays

Sherlock is trying desperately to be quiet, but it’s next to impossible. So he whimpers and bites his lip, not wanting John to hear him and come down to investigate. 

The lights are all off, leaving the outside street lamp as the only source of illumination. Robbed of visual distractions, Sherlock gratefully surrenders to the one addiction he refuses to give up: Ian Adler. 

He had texted Ian earlier that evening, after John went to bed, and said he was coming over in half an hour. For all he knew, the Man had been in the middle of spanking Swedish royalty, but Sherlock didn’t care. Deprived of interesting cases for over a month, his mind had been running wild like an escaped zoo animal, shredding his nerves and souring his already volatile temper.  Only Ian could calm him when he got like this, so if some CEO had their ball-stretching session interrupted, too bad.

To his surprise and delight Ian came to him instead. Sherlock had finished showering and dressing and was on his way out of the flat when Ian slipped through the kitchen window and manhandled him onto the sofa without so much as a “Good evening”. Now, fifteen minutes later,  Sherlock is lying on his back in the dark sitting room, naked from the waist down, shuddering and unconsciously fighting the handcuffs as two slick fingers piston in and out of his hole.

“Hush, pet,” Ian whispers, using his other hand to pull Sherlock’s head back. Their lips meet in a kiss that is anything but chaste: the Man shoves his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth like he owns it, staking his claim with a scrape of teeth and a low growl. 

Sherlock sobs as the thrusting and stretching hurt him in just the right way, going beyond mere pleasure and arousing a desperate hunger for more. “ _Please_ ,” he begs when Ian releases his mouth. His cock bobs in the air, untouched thanks to the cuffs holding his wrists behind his back, and his slim hips are jerking of their own accord, urging those fingers to be crueller and go deeper. _“More.”_

“More?” Ian croons. “But you’re so tight. I’m not so sure you can take three fingers right now.” But even as he speaks, he draws his hand out of Sherlock’s arse and reaches for the lube bottle on the coffee table. When he resumes his ministrations with three digits slicked all the way to the knuckle, Sherlock makes quiet little noises that sound a lot like _Yes_ and _More_ and _Please._

Ian’s soft voice strokes his ear like velvet. “One day, we must see if you can take my whole fist. Would you like that? An entire hand touching you here?” He curls his fingers and massages Sherlock’s prostate. The detective’s spine arches and his lips open in a wordless scream as pleasure whitens his vision.

Ian doesn’t let up: he knows that Sherlock’s need is too urgent. The stroking becomes more merciless, until Sherlock is convinced that one can indeed die from too much pleasure. The detective starts to cry out, but the Man silences him with a cool palm.

“Hush,” Ian says again, but Sherlock is past the point of voluntary obedience. His wiry body tightens and he utters one long, muffled moan before his cock pulses and shoots semen everywhere. Some of it hits Ian in the face, but the Man’s fingers keep up their momentum, fucking Sherlock through the aftershocks.

“Good boy. That’s it. Let go. Let me catch you.”

Finally Sherlock stops shuddering and goes limp, his purple shirt mottled by sweat stains and drying sperm.  Closing his eyes, he lets his head roll back against the sofa cushion. When Ian’s fingers withdraw and the cuffs are removed, Sherlock’s only reaction is a sated murmur.

He listens to the soft rasp of a lowering zip, followed by the primal sound of flesh being rapidly stroked. Sherlock knows he should offer to reciprocate, but the explosive release has left him in a state of languid paralysis. He’s too exhausted and content to even feel guilty, so he just lies there as Ian’s breathing and hand movements speed up in unison. Then the Man gasps and a wet heat splashes between Sherlock’s spread thighs, followed by a ragged sigh.

For awhile neither of them speaks. Then Ian rearranges his clothes, takes some tissues from his satchel, and cleans both of them up. He even removes Sherlock’s stained shirt and hides it under the detective’s discarded trousers and pants.

“I have a session with a visiting Hollywood director in an hour,” he says fondly, touching Sherlock’s cheek. “If I’m off my game, I’ll blame you.”

The detective’s eyes crack open. “You are never off your game.”

Ian’s brows lift. Compliments from Sherlock Holmes are practically an endangered species. “I suppose you do bring out the best in my technique,” he smiles as he pulls the folded duvet off the back of the sofa and covers Sherlock with it. “Try to get some rest.”

When Ian turns to leave, the detective grabs his wrist. “Wait. Please.”

Surprised, the Man sits back down. Sherlock releases him.

“You’ve known me long enough to be aware that this world drives me mad. It’s full of boring people who hardly know how to think and useless trivia that’s not even worth remembering. Like the fact that the earth goes around the sun.” His lip curls briefly, then relaxes. “There _are_ people I’m fond of. John. Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. But none of them take the dullness away.” A pause. “Only you do that for me.”

Ian doesn’t speak: partly because he knows Sherlock has more to say and partly because he doesn’t trust the steadiness of his own voice right now.

Sherlock’s eyes swerve from the ceiling to Ian’s face. “I always believed I’d die young, that boredom would push me to a point where I’d jump in front of a bullet or take a poisoned pill just to avoid it. Not any more. Now I can envision myself growing old, and think it could be quite pleasant. As long as you’re there.”

His speech delivered, Sherlock doesn’t wait for a response. Physically exhausted and mentally content now, he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

Gazing down at him, Ian trembles slightly. He wants to throw himself over Sherlock and protect him constantly: from boredom, aggravation, Moriarty, anything and anyone that can endanger him on some level. Knowing that he can never actually do so frustrates him deeply. But at least he and Sherlock have _this_.

Ian leaves soon afterward, slipping out into the London night the way he came. As his driver, who parked two blocks away, takes him home to prepare for the movie mogul’s session, he gazes out the window at the legions of early Christmas shoppers and wonders if anyone will ever receive a gift as precious as the one he’s just been given.

His mobile emits a text alert. Assuming that it’s from the client, Ian tears his eyes away from the street and reads the message. 

_Marry me. SH_


End file.
